


Captain, my captain

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about Michael Ballack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain, my captain

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on June 21st, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> The first paragraph of the fic refers to [this photoshoot](http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y188/neenski/hunks/bayern.jpg). Anyway, Niña, you are truly my angel for sharing my passion, my joy and my happiness - and for being such a magnificient beta! :-)

Yeah, thinking back on that last time when Lukas went down on him, just like that, in a millisecond, and afterwards he was fucking glad that he'd been lying down, because, damn. Nothing like Lukas' hottightwet mouth on him to turn his knees into grade-A jelly... and when the flash of the camera went off, Bastian had to blink a little, having overheard the 'Cheese!' command entirely. Ah well. He'd look like a complete idiot, but at least Micha and Roy would probably deflect the attention a bit - well, Micha would always be good for that, and it had to be a coincidence that Micha chose that moment to wink at him, smiling quickly, reassuring him. Bastian nods, acknowledging his captain's worry. He has been quite out of it today, but then, there's a certain Mr Podolski waiting for him at his house, probably snoring and drooling on the pillow, gloriously naked, and that's really not something you'd tell Micha when he's going to ask about what's wrong with you, Bastian thinks, his lips quirking up in a small smile.

*

"So you like Micha?", Lukas asks, casually, an arm slung over the couch's headrest, his other hand fishing around for the last crumbs of popcorn in the bowl that's sitting between them on the couch. Bastian chances a quick look in his direction, but Lukas is apparently engrossed in whatever's flickering over the TV screen, some dumb German comedy show, with that Turk, Yakar or Yanar or something like that, and so he just says, "Yes."

"Mh." Suddenly Lukas is looking at him, really looking, and Bastian can feel the stare, little pinpricks burning on his skin, and he's drawn to it, and then Lukas grins at him, a corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other one, and says, "He's beautiful, isn't he?"

*

And then he's lying there, spread-eagled over Lukas, not ever wanting to get up, never, and he feels Lukas' heavy breath puff in his ear, and it tickles. He turns his head and then they're that close, face-to-face, and there are just mere millimetres separating their mouths, and... it's weirdly real, realer than anything, and then Lukas is the one who closes the distance, licking over his lips, slowlazy stroke, and he responds, an open-mouthed kiss, and then he feels something warmheavy settle on his cheek, drawing him closer, and a strange calm spreads through his body, as if this is everything he ever wanted - and he's got it.

And before he consciously notices it, he's tracing Lukas' side, the ripple of muscles and bones and sinews and skin, glorious skin, and their legs are entangled, the sweat cooling, and then Lukas ends the kiss, resting his forehead against Bastian's, and their breaths mingle.

"Do you ever think about Ballack?", Lukas asks, quietly, and damn, why won't he stop nagging Bastian about Micha? And what's more, Bastian knows what he really means, what he hasn't said, and his hand stills. Has he? Thought about Michael Ballack while he was, well, fucking Lukas? Or doing other things? Not that he knows, consciously remembers, but... now that Lukas has said it, suddenly a flood of images of Michael under the showers surface in front of his eyes, that long sleek body gracefully curving back, cleaning off the shampoo, the taut ass clenching, and when he turns around, well. The first time Bastian saw him naked, he had been staring openly, slackjawed, and he's still thanking the gods that it had been only him and Ballack and Roy in the showers, Roy who had just grinned at him, whispered, "Snap out of it, Sebastian," and he had flushed, hurrying out of the shower after him, and then Ballack had called after him, "Schweinsteiger, wait up" and the only thing he could think of was 'damndamndamn' and then there he was, Michael Ballack, wetgleamingdrippingbeautiful, holding out his shower gel to him, his mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and Bastian could just croak out a 'thankyou', and... well, Roy has kept mum and he had taken care to not ogle Michael too much. Only from time to time. When he knew he was secure in doing so.

And sometimes he thinks Michael knows and doesn't mind.

"You know, that's answer enough, Bastian," and he looks up surprised, and Lukas just flexes his abdomen, enough to make Bastian realize that he's gripping him, fiercely, and woah, he didn't know that his cock could snap back to attention that quickly...

*

... and then Lukas had whispered things into his ear, things that Bastian is still blushing furiously at right now, stopping his car at a traffic light, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, things about Ballack, things that he has thought of himself, but never dared to put in words, and Lukas had just said them. No, he didn't just say them. He dragged them out, breathed them, all along with touching him everywhere, scratching his spine, massaging his ass, clutching his shoulders, his nails tracing the dusky hair on his upper thighs, making Bastian shuddershiver.

And then he gave in, gave into everything, Ballack's blinding smile flashing, Ballack's strong handgrip, Ballack's quiet voice, BallackBallackBallack, the blue-ish green eyes winking at him, his cleansharp sweat, a scent that Bastian is familiar with, and somehow it mingles with Lukas' own, a dizzying mixture, making Bastian's head buzz. And then Lukas bit down on his earlobe, gasping, "..beautiful ass, wanttofuckit, fuckhim, fuckfuck, him fucking you, here, yes, you wanthim to, don'tyou, Bastian, fuck, sobeautiful..." and his mindless rutting sped up, ohgod, being fucked by Michael fucking Ballack, oh GOD, and then it's too much, way too much, and he came, groaningcrushing his mouth on Lukas', shudders racking his body, wetwarmth spurting.

Honking. Damn, the traffic light is already green, and he has to be at the training grounds in five minutes, so Bastian doesn't waste any time and with screeching tires he rounds the corner, narrowly missing the curbstone. Damn, that had been close, and it was all Lukas' fault - but Bastian can't help his lips quirk up slightly, remembering Lukas grinning at him afterwards, his eyes half-hooded. "That was fun, wasn't it?", he had said, and Bastian, still out of breath, only could nod, staring at him.

Lukas really is something else, Bastian thinks, setting the indicator to turn into the park lot, waving to Hans, the gatekeeper. There's still a free spot next to an Audi, and only when Bastian gets out of his car, the keys jangling from his finger, he realizes that it's _Ballack's_ car - he can see a little picture book on the backseat, something Disney-ish, probably Emilio's.

And right on cue he hears steps behind him as he's opening his car's trunk lid, heaving out his bag, and then there's Michael, digging in his jeans' front pockets for something, presumably the car keys, and Bastian nods at him, "forgot something, Micha?" And he's bloody proud of himself that he didn't stutter or something, but the faint blush is still there, unfortunately. But he did get a bit sunburned yesterday, anyway, so it isn't that noticeable.

"Hey Bastian. Yes, forgot my wallet," his captain says, opening the front door and bending over, and damn. Although Lukas has a very nice ass, no one can ever compare to Ballack's, even if it's clad in jeans.

Bastian closes the lid, locks clicking into place. Heaving his bag onto his shoulder, he waits for Micha to walk back to the training field together with him. And just on time, Ballack lets out a satisfied "Hah! Found it!" and turns, gracing Bastian with a blinding smile and the item in question. He can't help but smile back at Micha, who's entirely too glorious for this world.

"Getting forgetful with age? Too many headers rattling up your brain?", he teases, falling into step next to Micha. Ballack snorts, shaking his head. "The young have no respect for the old, it seems." Basti laughs, and their looks meet, blue melting into brown, and everything's perfect, and you would just need little bunnies hopping all over the place and rainbows and doves, like in some animated cartoons.

"You're not that old, Micha. Just eight years on me," Bastian says, holding open the door for his captain and attempting a mock-bow. Again that smile that makes Bastian's knees feel slightly like jelly, and he really is something pathetic, always trying to evoke a smile or a laugh from Balla, but well, it's fucking _Micha_, and now he can't help blushing again, remembering Lukas. Somehow they're very much alike and yet not, Lukas and Micha.

Lukas is glorious in his own way, Bastian thinks, rounding a corner, his steps echoing Micha's, Lukas is like a bottle of Gatorade right after a very long jog, refreshing and blissful and you just can't stop wanting moremoremore, and it's uncomplicated and easy, and they connect so much that it's almost scary, sharing the same taste in almost everything - no fucking Polish hip hop for himself, no. And, well, Lukas is beautiful. It's something that Bastian hasn't thought too much about, but there it is, and it clicks into place smoothly. He's truly a prince, and now he can't hold back a giggle escaping his lips, and he can feel Micha's curious stare.

Meeting it with his own frank stare, Bastian grins. "It's nothing, Micha. Just something funny."

"Care to share the joke?", Ballack asks, a corner of his mouth curving up in an amused smile.

"I'd rather not," Bastian smiles. Hell, no.

"As you wish," and then they're in the locker room, and Micha crosses over to Torsten immediately, greeting him with a hug, whispering something in his ear, and Torsten smiles and nods, hugging Micha back, like they always do, and Bastian catches Torsten's look and waves, putting his bag on the bench next to Zé who's busy lacing up his shoes.

Lukas would fit in here beautifully, Bastian thinks, shedding his clothes into a heap on the bench. He'd be sitting next to Bastian, like they always do at the national squad, muscles flexing on his back when he's bending over, looking sideways at Bastian, a quick winksmile, and Bastian would smile back, crack some joke, and they'd be great, just like that. It's too bad he has to wait until 2007 when Poldi's finally released from his contract with the 1. FC Köln. But there's still the Confed Cup and the World Cup, and some visits between in there, catching red-eye flights from Cologne to Munich and back and vice versa.

But as long as Lukas isn't here, he's got to get through it, and like always, Bastian's eyes steer towards Micha, towards the longsleektanned muscled body, perfection, and all the people who said that Ballack could have been a model, easy, if it weren't for soccer, were totally right. Bastian knows that he's not the only one in the Bayern squad to admire Ballack - he's caught furtive glances from other teammates often enough that he knows he's not alone. He smiles to himself, adjusting himself in his shorts.

Michael is just too fucking beautiful. If Lukas is Gatorade, non-alcoholic, fitting as he doesn't do any booze, then Ballack is red wine, a very good year, blossoming on your tongue and tasting like all this shit that wine connoisseurs wax poetry on, and only when you've had the second or third glass of wine you realize that it's actually stronger than you thought, making you dizzy and everything looks way more lush and gorgeous and astonishing than before, glaringluscious colors, and you know that it's - _he's_ \- too much for you, way too much, so you stop drinking the wine, but it'll always be there, on display in your bar, something to admire. But a sip here or there doesn't hurt, though.

Since when did he turn into a poet?, Bastian asks himself, shaking his head, following in Torsten's footsteps, heading onto the pitch. He's got to get himself together, get his head screwed on right, and nothing's better than a grueling training session to do so.

And when he looks up, scrunching his eyes up against the blinding sun, he hears, "Do your worst, Schweini," and it's Michael, smiling at him, an arm settling around his shoulder, and Bastian grins.

He sure will do.


End file.
